


The Story of You

by blakefancier



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1442206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't believe in miracles," you said to the skinny young man on the exam table. "I believe in science. I believe in cold, hard facts."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story of You

**Author's Note:**

> Every once in awhile a story will remind me how much I love 2nd person pov. Then this sort of thing happens. I can only apologize.

"I don't believe in miracles," you said to the skinny young man on the exam table. "I believe in science. I believe in cold, hard facts."

The young man tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, and asked what the cold, hard facts said about the success of this experiment. You didn't say anything and you supposed that said everything. The young man smiled at that, like he'd won some argument you didn't know you were having.

*****

"I guess science doesn't know everything," Steve said later while the nurses took his blood, and you tried not to stare too much or too long.

You look down at the clipboard in your hands and ignore the pleasant clench in your belly. "Science is a process of discovery. No scientist is egotistical enough to think they know everything."

"Not even you?" He bumped your side with his toes and when you looked up in annoyance, he was smiling.

"Especially not me," you replied with a small smile of your own.

He laughed at that and you fought the urge to laugh with him.

******

You were in a dirty, ramshackle motel room, a boy kneeling at your feet. You fucked into his mouth, not caring if he choked and gagged or if tears fell from his eyes. The boy was as used to receiving gentleness as you were to giving it. You came down his throat with a groan, your hand clenching a fistful of his hair. The boy didn't stand until you tucked yourself back in and tossed a few bills his way.

You fell back onto the bed, took a cigarette from your case, lit it, and took a long, slow drag. The smoke curled upwards in a lazy spiral and you weren't sure what you were doing there in that shitty motel, thinking about a boy you couldn't have. And you were glad, suddenly you were glad that you were never going to see Steve again. You were glad and something inside of you ached, like your fingers in the middle of winter when you were too poor to afford gloves: bone-aching and throbbing and endless.

  Ceaseless.

***** 

Only you did see him again, didn't you? You saw the way his eyes lit up when he saw Carter, like a little boy at Christmas. His jealousy left a bitter taste in your mouth, a slow, churning in your gut. And you hated him then, for a just a moment you hated him.

Then he was falling, falling, falling to his death. What you thought was his death and the bitterness turned to ashes and your skin felt shriveled and charred.

And it hurt. It hurt. 

Hurt.

*****

Was it cold when you saw him again? Was it hot? Did it rain? Later, you changed the story every time you told it. But was summer in London and the heat was so oppressive you could barely breathe. Your shirt stuck to your skin and you wished you could strip down to your underclothes. 

When he walked in, eyes bright and curious, it felt like a sucker punch. Something like hope, like desire, like need bloomed just as bright in your chest.

And then he smiled at you and you broke. 

'I love you,' you thought, like the rhythm of a chugging train, 'I love you I love you I love you.'

***** 

You were bent over your workbench, a pencil in one hand, the other braced against the wood of the table. You heard footsteps behind you, but you didn't turn around. You knew who it was, your brain, your heart, the very cells in your body knew the cadence of his steps.

And yet it startled you when you felt his cold fingers against the back of your neck. They traced up into your hair, then curled there for a moment, before pulling away. 

When you finally got the courage to turn around, he was gone, and you thought maybe you'd dreamed it. But later, when you looked into your shaving mirror, you saw the smudges on your skin.

Pencil, you realized.

You washed away the physical evidence, but his marks lingered in your memory.

Forever in your memory. 

***** 

He handed you the beer he'd been nursing all night. "I can't finish it," he said with a slight moue of disgust.

You brought the glass to your lips and thought you could taste the lushness of his mouth on your tongue. 

***** 

"You're brilliant," he said, fingers against your neck, leaving marks that you'd touch later and smear on your skin like a promise.

"Of course I am." Because of course you were.

He smiled and tugged on a lock of your hair. "So modest."

You splintered, you shattered, and your pieces were jagged and dangerous. But you smiled back and brushed his hands away so as not to cut him. 

***** 

No one knew but you: his bright eyes, his easy smile, his fingers on your skin. 

His lush mouth on your mouth. 

Sweet and warm.

Later, you could not recount the facts; they jumbled in your mind, racing away in a blur when you reached for them. It should bother you, but a lazy contentment melted your bones and you could only lie there, staring up at the ceiling of the room, cigarette in hand, the heat of his body against your side.

He murmured softly and you murmured back, a hand in his hair.

Gentle.

***** 

It was cold when his ship went down; it was raining. Water slid down the back of your neck and soaked your shirt and filled your bitter mouth and drowned you.

Drowned you.

Was it the water or cold that killed him? Was it the impact?

You didn't know, you didn't know, and you washed away the absence of knowledge with whiskey and scotch and something that burned all the way down.

And you were charred and frozen and shattered and wet and no, no, no.

No!

***** 

"Keep looking," you said, because you believed in miracles.


End file.
